


Playing With Fire

by Enfilade



Series: On My Dark and Lonely Side [4]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Fluff and Smut, Lack of Communication, M/M, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-12-15
Packaged: 2018-09-13 23:19:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 18,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9146452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enfilade/pseuds/Enfilade
Summary: Tarn has spent his life hunting mechs on the List.  Now a mech, formerly on the List, is hunting him--for pleasure, not pain--and Tarn's not sure what to think about that.





	1. Smoulder

If asked, Tarn would say that he was planning strategy. _Handling Megatron_ was easier said than done; Tarn was under no illusions that Megatron had gone soft, however erratic his behaviour had been of late. First the DJD had to find Megatron. Then they had to deal with his Autobot allies, and, preferably, solve the mystery as to why Megatron was aboard a ship that Tarn swore his team had destroyed a year ago. Finally, Tarn had to face his own deepest fears, and strike a killing blow on the mech he’d rebuilt his life to serve.

So that was what Tarn was nominally doing. A little break didn’t count. A little break in which Tarn leaned back in his chair and thought about his new subcommander.

His thoughts were distinctly not of the professional variety.

Tarn had…well, to be wholly honest, he had been more than a little shocked to wake up with Deathsaurus in his berth that first morning, gently but firmly insisting that the proper way to seal an alliance on the Rim involved full interface. And that the mech using his valve was considered the dominant partner. Tarn had been alarmed and aroused in equal measure; but for the Empire, he would suffer anything. If he took pleasure beyond the satisfaction of a successful alliance…well. That was simply a bonus.

Tarn would have been fine with a single encounter, he thought. Except that the very next day, Deathsaurus had been blatantly obvious that, having had a taste, he was back for a little more. Tarn had pulled him into a deserted office to deliver a reprimand and somehow they’d ended up fragging on the desk.

Tarn sighed. He still wasn’t sure what had gone wrong, there. Being pulled aside for a private chat with the commander of the DJD ought to put the fear into anyone. Tarn had thought that Deathsaurus would end up shocked and apologetic and ashamed of himself. Instead Deathsaurus had responded as though Tarn had put fresh meat in front of a slavering beast.

And Tarn’s _own_ response hadn’t been any more predictable. He should have been…disgusted, appalled, horrified. Instead…

…Well, having someone look at him with such obvious desire was perversely flattering.

Megatron had never been as interested in Tarn as Tarn was in him, at least not for more centuries than Tarn could count. And when Tarn wasn’t with Megatron, he was toying with a series of fancy jets and pretty speedsters, all of them under his control. Teaching them the joys of submission to the Empire. He always had to break down their initial resistance, seduce their panels open, coax them into surrender. Tarn had thought the fun was in the challenge. That was his _thing_ , wasn’t it? Turning others the way Megatron had turned him. Following the path set out by his Lord.

Tarn had no idea what to do with someone like Deathsaurus. Someone who was so enthusiastic and forward.

And _now…_

Deathsaurus had been the model of propriety for just over a week: a professional officer both loved and respected by his crew. The DJD and the Warworld staff had conducted a number of increasingly successful exercises. Deathsaurus had settled into his role as field marshal with unexpected grace for a mech previously used to commanding himself.

And Deathsaurus had not said one word about their little tryst, and it was driving Tarn _mad_.

He should be happy that Deathsaurus was conducting himself as befit an officer. Tarn didn’t frag his own team, for professional reasons, and that policy ought to extend to his new subcommander. But be damned if Tarn’s ego didn’t feel slighted…not to mention his _spike_. At times like this he slipped into daydreams about Deathsaurus’s valve, Deathsaurus’s tongue, Deathsaurus’s big, powerful frame…

…and Tarn had never been good at denying his indulgences.

He got up in his desk and converted to tank mode, then changed back. But his usual vice of excessive transformation didn’t do a thing for him today. He didn’t want to feel his T-cog thrumming. He wanted to overload.

Tarn bit down on his lip behind his mask. He should just lock the door, release his spike and self-service, or he’d never get anything done today.

He’d gotten as far as _lock the door_ when his communicator pinged with an incoming message. One marked TOP SECRET.

Curious, Tarn checked the data packet. From Deathsaurus. Guiltily, he turned back to his desk, trying to forget that he had just been thinking about interfacing with the mech, and that his spike was still straining at his panel.

TO: Tarn (Decepticon Emperor)

FROM: Deathsaurus (Warworld Commander)

SUBJECT: Hey

 _Hey_? Tarn thought. _What kind of subject line is that?_

The message consisted of two words.

_You busy?_

Tarn snorted. He had a high-profile job with serious responsibilities. He was always _busy_. His professional pride resented the implication that he was lazing about being unproductive.

On the other hand, he wasn’t doing anything so urgent that it couldn’t wait.

_Like thinking about…no._

Tarn dictated his reply and sent it off.

TO: Deathsaurus (Warworld Commander)

FROM: Tarn (Decepticon Emperor)

SUBJECT: Inquiry

_Not with any pressing matters. You wish to speak to me?_

Moments later, a new data packet arrived, with the same TOP SECRET flag.

TO: Tarn (Decepticon Emperor)

FROM: Deathsaurus (Warworld Commander)

SUBJECT: Great

 _Great_ was only a minimal improvement on _hey_. Tarn opened the message and almost choked.

Three words, this time.

_Want to fuck?_


	2. Spark

Chapter Two: Spark

People did _not_ walk up to the commander of the DJD and ask him if he _wanted to fuck_.

Tarn spluttered, trying to figure out what to make of Deathsaurus’s latest message. Was Deathsaurus _serious_? 

Tarn suspected Deathsaurus had only sent that data packet to provoke a reaction. Well, the joke was on Deathsaurus. Tarn was in his office, alone, with no one else to see as he coughed his throat raw. There were no witnesses, no public humiliation. If it _killed_ him, he would not give Deathsaurus the satisfaction of knowing he’d been shocked.

Tarn had thought he’d taught Deathsaurus some manners after that _indecent_ public pawing incident. The one that had evolved into Tarn getting his spike sucked in an empty office. Tarn’s fans began to rotate and his face burned with shame as he remembered how that little encounter had turned out….with him almost begging for Deathsaurus’s spike.

Still. By the end of it, Deathsaurus had been humbled, because out on the Rim, begging for valve was as shameful as begging for spike back on Cybertron. Tarn had thought that Deathsaurus had learned his lesson.

Evidently _not_.

And this was not the kind of thing that could be handled over private comms. There were topics that were appropriate for data packet transmission, and topics that were not. Disciplining one’s subordinates fell into the second category.

TO: Deathsaurus (Warworld Commander)

FROM: Tarn (Decepticon Emperor)

SUBJECT: Meeting

_What is your current location?_

Tarn squared his shoulders and glanced in the mirror in the corner of his office. Yes. His armour was polished and dent-free; his treads had been recently oiled; his mask was in perfect alignment with his helmet. He looked powerful, dangerous, every inch a Decepticon. 

If he was not entirely comfortable with the way he looked…no, that was the voice of someone else. A mech long since gone. Tarn was the leader of the DJD and looked the part; he should content himself with that knowledge. Damus was as good as dead.

His comm link pinged. Deathsaurus. Another simple message, consisting of nothing but a room designation.

Tarn nodded to his reflection and set out into the corridor, where he transformed and drove off towards the room Deathsaurus had indicated. By the time he arrived outside the door and changed back to robot mode, he had his thoughts organized. He would tell Deathsaurus that private messages with the top secret designation were not to be used for pranks; that it was inappropriate to prank the Decepticon Emperor under any circumstances; and that if Deathsaurus had so much time on his hands for games, Tarn would find him something to do that would be more useful for the Cause. Yes. Objectives fixed in his mind, his earlier embarrassment was almost forgotten.

Tarn knocked on the door.

The portal slid backwards, revealing a dimly lit room beyond. The lighting was so low that the furniture appeared as shadows: a double-wide berth, a sideboard, a mirror in a frame. In the corner, a beverage dispenser with surprisingly nice drinking vessels. There was no clutter anywhere, no knickknacks, no datapads or maps. The room, though clean and unusually decorative for Deathsaurus’s utilitarian Warworld, was as sterile and impersonal as a hotel. There was no sign of Deathsaurus as Tarn stepped inside.

A sudden, panicked thought flashed red in Tarn’s mind.

_Next time might I suggest a discreet personal communication. And a room with a proper berth._

That was what Tarn had told Deathsaurus after that indecent tryst in the office. Tarn had only caught the implications after the fact. But he hadn’t thought Deathsaurus would be nervy enough to try for a _next time_. Not until the present moment.

He’d underestimated his new subcommander.

The door closed behind him. Tarn adjusted his optics to the lower lighting, but there was still no sign of occupancy in the room before him. Was this really Deathsaurus’s hab suite?

Tarn realized, too late, that the only life sign other than his own was, in fact, _behind_ him. Deathsaurus had been lying in wait next to the door.

_A predator. Just like the beast he turns into._

Talons closed around Tarn’s left hip and splayed across his right chestplate. Wings folded around him, enveloping him. Deathsaurus’s chest pressed into Tarn’s back. 

“Hel _lo_ ,” the Warworld commander purred in Tarn’s left audio.

Tarn stood frozen, absolutely flabbergasted. Deathsaurus didn’t seem to mind. His left hand explored Tarn’s abdomen while his right fondled Tarn’s chestplate. Tarn could feel the claw at the top of the left wing curling itself around his left gun barrel. He swore he could feel the claw’s long hook dipping in and out of his weapon’s tip. 

Tarn’s breath caught in his intakes as something moist and shocking traced its way up his neck.

_Deathsaurus’s tongue_.

This was no practical joke. When Deathsaurus asked if he _wanted to fuck_ he evidently meant every word of it.

And he’d interpreted Tarn’s presence here as an answer—an unequivocal _yes_.

Tarn felt as though his brain had stalled. His infamous voice was silent; his tongue lay fallow in his mouth. Meanwhile Deathsaurus pressed his intimate assault. He nipped Tarn’s throat, then soothed the bite with long, smooth strokes of his tongue. The hand on Tarn’s abdomen dipped indecently low.

Tarn ought to be protesting this outrageous behaviour. Even if Rim culture equated Tarn’s presence here in this room with an admission of sexual availability, Tarn was still the Decepticon Emperor and he could stop Deathsaurus any time he wanted to.

Except he was having significant trouble wanting to.

There was something about the way Deathsaurus touched him that made his spark throb. It was more than a rote physical response to a stimulus in an erogenous zone. It was something about the way Deathsaurus had been lying in wait here for _him_. Deathsaurus could have sent that data packet to any of his troops, and he’d sent it to _Tarn_.

Now he was touching Tarn as though he’d caught himself a treasure—something he wanted to explore, and savour, and cherish. Deathsaurus’s talons wove in and out of Tarn’s transformation seams on a mission of discovery, and Deathsaurus purred in Tarn’s audio, clearly delighted with his findings.

Tarn had no idea what to _do_. In the past he’d gone to Megatron’s quarters to serve, yes, but Megatron had never touched him like _this_. And when Tarn had summoned his most recent pets, it had always been with the intention of charming them, seducing them, reducing them to panting wrecks before ever laying a hand on them. He was not accustomed to being the _target_ of seduction.

It was every bit the wonder he’d dreamed it might be.

Unfortunate, then, that a _subcommander_ ought not be so forward with his Emperor. Tarn cleared his throat, ready to demand that Deathsaurus stop. But the word hovered on his lips, one second longer…two. Two seconds more to savour the incredible pleasure cascading through his frame and the sense of being _desired_ that caused his spark to flutter.

Maybe _three_ seconds.

Tarn had never been good at reining in his indulgences, and as three seconds stretched to five and the pleasure in his frame multiplied, his spike panel spoke on his behalf.

The sharp snap of his panel sliding open echoed in the dim and quiet room.


	3. Ignite

Chapter Three: Ignite

Tarn felt _mortified_. Indulgence was one thing, but losing control of his own frame was quite another.

Tarn didn’t dare hope that Deathsaurus didn’t hear it. He gave his panel a command to close, but his body ignored it. Humiliated, Tarn dropped his hand to close it manually.

Except another hand got there first.

Deathsaurus’s left hand, already so low on his thigh, reached over, digits outstretched. Taloned fingers closed around the length of Tarn’s spike. 

Oh, his traitorous spike. It already stood proudly, in contrast to Tarn’s embarrassment. Its head curved upwards, showing off the gold piercing through its tip.

Deathsaurus folded his hand over the spike and stroked. His palm travelled smoothly over the delicate surface, while his fingers tightened just enough to produce a delightful drawing sensation, rather like a valve’s calipers. Then he thumbed that piercing, and Tarn felt a moan escape his lips.

“ _Well now_ ,” Deathsaurus purred. “Isn’t _this_ a nice surprise.”

Surprise. Of course. Because out on the Rim a leader would be expected to present his valve to his subordinates.

If Tarn was going to interface with Deathsaurus at all—and that was something he’d still not quite wrapped his mind around whether he was actually going to do or not—but _if_ he did, he shouldn’t be doing it in a way that implied submission to Deathsaurus’s outrageous invitation and predatory fondling of his frame.

No matter _how_ well the Warworld commander could work a spike.

Oh, this wasn’t _decent_. Tarn thrust into Deathsaurus’s grip, and the rogue commander chuckled as he worked Tarn’s spike. Meanwhile, his other hand continued to play with Tarn’s transformation seams, and his tongue tickled its way up under the edge of Tarn’s mask, where it laved the sensitive metal usually protected by the mask’s overhang. 

“Deathsaurus,” Tarn gasped. If he couldn’t say _stop_ and mean it, maybe he could at least slow the other mech down.

But Deathsaurus was as relentless as any predator in pursuit of its prey. “Mmm?” he hummed, by way of inquiry, while his fingers formed a tight ring just behind the head of Tarn’s spike and Tarn automatically thrust into it and _by the Smelter did Deathsaurus ever know what to do with a spike_. It was all Tarn could do to keep his balance; he wanted to pump his hips so hard he’d lose his footing if he tried. The snugness of Deathsaurus’s grip on his spike produced the sensation of thrusting into tight valve calipers, and it made Tarn thirsty for the real thing. 

_Fine_. Deathsaurus could have the valve interface he so obviously wanted. But he would have it on Tarn’s terms.

“I want you…” Tarn took a deep breath, steeling himself so his next words sounded like a command. He was thankful once again for the mask which hid his facial expression. It was _mortifying_ to speak such crude things out loud. “I want you kneeling over the edge of the berth.”

Deathsaurus released him. Tarn drew air into his overheated intakes and turned to gaze imperiously at the Warworld commander. 

Deathsaurus looked back at Tarn with an unrepentant smirk. “I _bet_ you do,” he said, and then he swaggered over to the berth, his wings swishing with every footstep, his hips swaying. He rested one knee on the edge of the berth and _stretched_ —spine elongated, aft raised, wings flared, head thrown back.

Tarn’s mouth watered and he almost coughed. Deathsaurus was far from humiliated by Tarn’s order. Instead, he was _showing off_. 

Tarn felt more off-balance than ever, and it disturbed him to no end.

He was supposed to be the _Emperor_ , but Deathsaurus challenged him, questioned him, caught him off guard at every turn. Tarn felt as though he were bumbling along, guessing his way through his new role, _faking it_ , while Deathsaurus toyed with him, playing along and laughing at him from behind his wings whenever Tarn’s back was turned. The terrible idea that Deathsaurus was mocking him settled into the forefront of his brain and would not leave.

Was Deathsaurus carrying on like this to give Tarn enough rope to hang himself? Playing, waiting for Tarn to tip his hand and admit that he wanted Deathsaurus, that Deathsaurus turned him on? That Tarn was starting to have the kind of feelings that one ought not to have for one’s sexual playthings? Oh, and once Tarn admitted _that_ , he’d be the laughingstock of the Warworld.

Tarn wasn’t sure why Deathsaurus would do such a thing—why he would jeopardize the new alliance to bring Tarn’s good name into ridicule—but the more Tarn thought about it…which was, admittedly, hard, what with Deathsaurus stroking his own thigh and aft and _dear Primus, fingering his valve panel_ , and was that _lubricant_ already oozing through it, running down Deathsaurus’s inner legs and…

_Ahem_.

The more Tarn thought about it, the more he realized the unpleasant notion in his mind was the only logical explanation for Deathsaurus’s behaviour. Deathsaurus was playing him—setting him up. The only other reason Deathsaurus might be doing such a thing would be because he found _Tarn_ overwhelmingly attractive, which made _no_ sense on a Warworld full of sleek speedsters and aerodynamic jets. Tarn liked to think he had a realistic grasp of his own shortcomings, which included the fact that big armoured brutes such as himself appealed only to two types: first, other big armoured brutes who couldn’t catch a more attractive mate, and second, those individuals with a particular kink for being overpowered and roughed up. 

Tarn had known more than a few of the second kind, most of whom he disappointed—he did _not_ accept interface as a viable apology for List-worthy behaviour. Before the List, though, he’d indulged some of the _prettier_ ones he’d met during his tenure as Commandant of Grindcore. Still, using cuffs and restraints on his partner had always seemed so distastefully crude, particularly when he could now get the same results from a few whispered words. 

Tarn doubted Deathsaurus was one of those individuals. In fact, the Warworld commander seemed to take very _badly_ to being told what to do. Tarn had seen individuals step out of line in the hopes of being noticed—Starscream, for example, and how endlessly frustrating it had been to not be able to put Starscream on the List, but Megatron had forbidden it. Deathsaurus did not act like someone who not-so-secretly wanted to be caught. Deathsaurus acted like someone who, if pushed too far, would burn all bridges and himself with them, consequences be damned. 

Well, Tarn was about to push him now, but no further than he _deserved_. Surely, Tarn thought as he watched Deathsaurus thumb his own valve panel, the Warworld Commander would, in the end, admit that he’d _asked_ for this.


	4. Blaze

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings on this chapter for bad intentions, lack of communication and rough sex.
> 
> They don't quite know how to play nicely yet.

Chapter 4: Blaze

Deathsaurus looked back over his shoulder, regarding Tarn through four smouldering optics. He was clearly tired of waiting for Tarn to give him the order to open his panels, because he opened them himself with a rapid double click. Tarn’s optics widened as Deathsaurus’s valve went on full display. Deathsaurus eased his knee off the side of the berth in order to lean over farther, spread his legs wider, and better show off his valve.

And what a valve it was.

Tarn hadn’t gotten a very good look at it on the first night. It had seemed indecent to stare at an ally’s valve, even if said ally _was_ pleading for spike at the time. Tarn had dimmed his optics and looked only as much as he needed to in order to nudge the lips open with his piercing and guide his spike home. The rest of the time, he’d been focused on Deathsaurus’s face.

Tarn hadn’t gotten a good look at it the second time, either, when the encounter had focused on Deathsaurus’s spike. And mouth.

It was a lot harder not to look at it when Deathsaurus was so blatantly showing it off, so Tarn told his sense of decency to hold its tongue.

Tarn had to admit that it was quite the work of art, as valves went. Plush lips striped silver and blue in alternating bands separated by brilliant yellow pinstripes. Yellow striping around the bright red anterior node at the top. Hints of red deep inside. One would almost think the valve had been _designed_ to be looked at. Tarn felt rather drab in comparison until he remembered Deathsaurus’s expresion at the sight of his piercings. _Well_. Not so drab after all.

Tarn supposed that however pleasant it was to admire Deathsaurus’s valve, this wasn’t an art gallery—he was absolutely expected to _touch_. He took a step forward, only to find that Deathsaurus didn’t want to wait.

Deathsaurus leaned his weight on his left arm and let his right hand slip between his thighs. His second and fourth fingers parted the lips of his valve, giving Tarn a tantalizing glimpse at a yellow node cluster just inside.

_Then_ Deathsaurus slid his index finger into the valve, aiming to tickle that node with his claw.

Tarn stared. He couldn’t help it. Watching Deathsaurus’s finger sliding into the valve, coming back out all slick with lubricant, sliding back in again… It made Tarn’s mouth water and his spike throb. Deathsaurus made a panting noise as he slid his finger back in and moaned when his talon found what was evidently a slightly deeper node.

That sound shocked Tarn from his stupor.

Tarn grabbed Deathsaurus’s right hand by the wrist and gently but firmly pulled his finger out of his valve. “That’s _quite enough_ of that,” he scolded. “I won’t have you calling me here just to watch you take care of your own problem.”

“Hurry up, then,” Deathsaurus growled.

Tarn couldn’t tell if the rogue commander had the audacity to give him orders, or if he was now desperate enough to beg. And really, Tarn didn’t _care_. There _had_ to be consequences for this kind of promiscuous behaviour. If Deathsaurus wanted it in the valve so badly, Tarn would _give_ it to him.

Tarn’s free hand closed on Deathsaurus’s hip. Deathsaurus groaned and arched his back, displaying himself again. Tarn released his grip on Deathsaurus’s wrist and hissed, “You’ll need that arm to _brace yourself_.”

Deathsaurus mewed, whether in worry or approval, Tarn didn’t know. Tarn grasped the other hip in his newly unoccupied hand and lined up his spike with that pretty valve, that decadent valve, that _leaking moisture down thighs and onto the berth_ valve…

Tarn hesitated. He probably ought to test that lovely valve, to make sure it was able to comfortably take a spike. His spike wasn’t overly huge, but it was definitely larger than a single finger. 

Except that when he took a peek at Deathsaurus, he saw the rogue commander desperately licking his index finger. The one that had been up inside his own valve.

Tarn wasn’t sure whether the feeling in his systems was arousal or disgust, but it demanded immediate action. He took a tight hold and thrust his spike into Deathsaurus’s valve.

The valve calipers parted easily, taking half the spike’s length on the first thrust. Static danced across Tarn’s field of vision as he felt the thick, hot syrup of Deathsaurus’s lubricant coating the head of his spike. Then Deathsaurus’s calipers closed, snugging up on the spike. Tarn pressed forward a little more and groaned to feel the pressure points stroke his spike as he moved.

He drew back, and that felt incredible too—the hot, wet slip of those sensitive parts of his spike being stimulated in reverse. With just the head of his spike between the valve lips, Tarn thrust forward again, harder, deeper.

Instant gratification.

The deeper part of Deathsaurus’s valve was considerably tighter. Tarn wondered if the rogue commander had been playing with himself while waiting for Tarn to arrive…sliding two or three fingers up inside. Well, Tarn was now farther than finger depth, and he wanted to be fully sheathed. 

Tarn thrust hard at the reluctant upper calipers. Deathsaurus groaned and flared his wings. The inside of Deathsaurus’s valve felt incredible, but it wasn’t _enough_. 

Tarn grabbed Deathsaurrus’s shoulders for leverage and thrust again. His spike felt a bit of give. His piercing caught for just a moment against what had to be a raised node. The sudden tweak of pain followed by instant release and pleasure made his vision static out again. Deathsaurus let out an avian shriek and Tarn felt sudden, instantaneous, concern and delight.

Concern he’d hurt Deathsaurus.

Delight that he could make his cocky subcommander sing for him.

This was _wrong_ , this entire interface situation was so _wrong_ , and yet it was far too late for Tarn to stop. It was the most he could do to slow down and thrust a little more gently, prying another set of calipers apart with his spike head deep within that hot and tight valve.

_You don’t hurt your mate. That’s wrong._

Deathsaurus sucked in air, turned his head and said through gritted teeth, “Is that the best you’ve got?”

Tarn felt his fuel pump stop.

He had _just_ started to feel a measure of concern, almost regret, for his rough fragging, and _that_ was what Deathsaurus had to say?

Tarn leaned forward and whispered in Deathsaurus’s audio, “Why don’t you tell me?” 


	5. Inferno

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes on this chapter - Poor communication issues bordering on dubious consent, implied past situations of warden/prisoner and dubious consent.
> 
> Tarn, you're lucky Desu likes it rough.

Chapter Five: Inferno

“Why don’t you tell me?”

Tarn seized Deathsaurus’s hips and thrust in _hard_. Deathsaurus’s reply was an animalistic cry, and Tarn was only getting started. His grip on the rogue commander’s pelvis allowed him to shove Deathsaurus away from him, pulling his spike almost free from Deathsaurus’s valve, before tightening his grasp and dragging Deathsaurus back onto his spike. Again. _Again_. Tarn could see Deathsaurus’s fluids soaking his valve, dripping down his thighs in streaks. He could hear loud, indecent, filthy noises as his spike slid in and out through all that lubrication. He could feel Deathsaurus’s deepest calipers giving way against his assault. It turned him on more than he thought possible.

He’d never fragged anyone this roughly. Tarn was well aware that he was a big armoured brute of a mech, and no amount of culture would change the modifications to his frame that let him shrug off explosions and swat rockets out of his path. He liked to sit back on his overstuffed sofa with a drink in his hand and let his pretty companions climb onto his lap, onto his spike. He could spin their wheels with his finger, or stroke their delicate wings, and admire their lithe little frames while they did all the work, fucking themselves on his equipment.

And, of course, he couldn’t _break them_ that way.

Even with the prisoners, it had never, _ever_ been about physically overpowering them. It had been about seducing them, charming them, talking so sweetly until they made compromises they couldn’t take back. Until they found themselves wanting him in spite of or sometimes even _because of_ who he was.

Their beautiful guilt mirrored his own. He ought to be attracted to the strong workers who were the Decepticon ideal, and he _was_ —Megatron being the ultimate embodiment of that ideal—but in his secret heart Tarn thirsted for his fragile little treats, _particularly_ the ones of noble manufacture or professional expertise. Better yet, _both_. There was no better sinful pleasure than wanting that which he shouldn’t want at all.

He’d seduced them to shatter their ethics in favour of their cravings and felt just a little bit better about the depths of his own desires and his success in holding to the Decepticon cause despite them. More or less. If he caused a little collateral damage in the name of a new piece of artwork or a vintage engex, well, was that so bad, _really_?

Deathsaurus was outside Tarn’s comfort zone. For all the mech had gorgeous wings—wings which were currently flaring wide with every thrust Deathsaurus took up his valve—he really was built more like Megatron than like a little car or jet. An _animal_ Megatron. Big. Armoured. Powerful.

_Strong enough to take whatever Tarn gave him._

A _beast_.

Tarn took hold and thrust again, vowing to appreciate the novelty rather than just abandon himself to the intensely pleasurable sensations. This frag felt entirely too good, and Tarn hoped he didn’t overload too soon…he wanted to draw the experience out and savour it. 

Deathsaurus flapped his wings again, harder, hitting Tarn in the shoulders with their tips.

Tarn didn’t appreciate the distraction. He let go of Deathsaurus’s hips and grabbed the roots of those wings instead, shoving his spike in even more roughly as he did so.

He felt his piercing nudge a very large, swollen node that had to be in the vicinity of Deathsaurus’s upload jack. 

Deathsaurus squealed.

Tarn let go, suddenly _mortified_ , when the Warworld commander panted, “Yeah! Right _there_.”

Tarn stared, temporarily forgetting his spike was still partly inside Deathsaurus’s valve.

Deathsaurus _liked_ being…being mounted like an animal in heat?!

Tarn bit his tongue against the urge to lecture Deathsaurus to show some _class_ and act like an officer and a gentleman. 

_Because if he likes it this way, I’ve done nothing wrong._

_If he likes it this way, I can continue._

Deathsaurus thrashed. “Tarn! Don’t _stop_ , you damned sadist!” He sucked air into his intakes. “ _Damn you, what do you want from me??_ ”

 _I can have this_ , Tarn thought.

“Sing for me,” Tarn said impulsively.

Then he grabbed those wing roots and thrust his spike home.

Oh, did Deathsaurus sing. Tarn marvelled at the sounds the Warworld commander was capable of producing. Gasps, howls, shrieks, roars….

Tarn’s own breath came harder and faster as his fans kicked into high gear. He wasn’t used to working so hard during interface, but by the Cause, did it feel good. He aimed his spike for that spot Deathsaurus had been talking about and was rewarded to feel Deathsaurus’s calipers fluttering all along the length of his spike.

Fluttering _hard_.

Tarn couldn’t jack into Deathsaurus’s data port—not with the piercing through the tip of his spike preventing a full connection—but Deathsaurus certainly seemed to feel the gold metal piercing rubbing against his port’s connectors. He convulsed in ecstasy, and Tarn grabbed on to those wings hard enough to leave dents to keep from being thrown off as Deathsaurus overloaded under him.

Tarn felt a momentary panic that Deathsaurus _would_ toss him off when his overload was complete. And Tarn was nowhere ready to give up on the pleasure he was experiencing. It was still building, to alarming levels, but he was nowhere near done. He thrust faster, harder, chasing his own overload while he could.

His spike jackhammered into the wet and waiting valve. Deathsaurus’s calipers tensed, twitched, surrendered. The Warworld commander sagged against the berth, but Tarn just kept on going.

Tarn could hear an ominous creaking noise. A thunking noise. Was he seriously fragging Deathsaurus hard enough to shake the whole berth?

Deathsaurus gasped. “Oh….oh…..”

Tarn wanted to overload, wanted to overload so much, but he wasn’t quite _there_ and he didn’t know why _not_. Interface had never been this intense. How could there be _more to come?_

Deathsaurus shoved himself up on his arms, leaning back into Tarn’s thrusts. Tarn gasped as the sensations against his spike changed as a result of the new position.

Deathsaurus’s valve rippled.

“ _Again_ ,” Deathsaurus said, his voice gravelly from exertion.

And Tarn was helpless to disobey.

Thrown off his feet by his own lust, bowled over by the unexpected pleasure, reeling from Deathsaurus’s relentless hunger, Tarn fucked his subcommander harder than he’d ever fucked anyone before. The berth creaked loudly and Tarn was sure it wasn’t bouncing back as quickly as it used to, but that didn’t matter. He didn’t know if his spike or Deathsaurus’s valve would rub raw first and didn’t care; it was far too good to stop, far too powerful to even try to slow down, and it would be more than worth any pain he felt later. His higher thought processes shut down. He was reduced to a rutting beast and he wanted nothing else than his spike buried deep in Deathsaurus’s perfect valve _forever._

Overload was a cataclysm. Not the feeling of release and subsequent relaxation that Tarn was used to; not the crescendo in a symphony or the final curtain at a theatre, but rather, the devastation of an explosion, the fatigue that followed a battle, the blinding obliteration that only usually came with the sort of pain that overwhelmed receptors until they refused to feel any additional sensation. Tarn’s spike felt like a lightning rod and the force of his discharge shook his whole frame. He was dimly aware of Deathsaurus writhing underneath him, experiencing a second overload of his own as Tarn poured himself into the receiving valve.

A thunderclap. The bedframe broke apart, dropping the mattress, and the two Decepticons on it, to the floor.

A brief oblivion followed.

Tarn came around to find himself sprawled over Deathsaurus’s back, his spike still shallowly penetrating the other mech’s valve. Under him, Deathsaurus squirmed, half rolled, shoved. Tarn half slid, half was shoved off Deathsaurus and onto the crooked mattress as his vision re-set. 

He saw Deathsaurus looming over him. His vision flickered and he almost missed the sight of Deathsaurus changing shape.

Then the creature’s head darted forward and, a moment later, the monster’s jaws closed over Tarn’s throat.


	6. Wildfire

Chapter Six: Wildfire

Tarn was far too groggy post-overload to react in time. He lay sprawled on a mattress in the middle of a broken berth, watching helplessly as Deathsaurus’s beast head darted down. The avian jaws parted, revealing a row of jagged teeth, and then they closed around his neck. 

Tarn opened his mouth, but no sound escaped his lips.

_My voxcoder is resetting._

_I can’t talk_.

No voice, no power. No power, no way to stop Deathsaurus from doing whatever he had in mind. Tarn couldn’t roll over; he barely had any strength to thrash, and his feeble efforts didn’t budge the creature. One of Deathsaurus’s animal arms grasped the treads on Tarn’s shoulder, while another clung to the V-shaped plate on his chest. The weight of Deathsaurus’s body trapped Tarn’s hip; an animal leg pinned Tarn’s inner thigh, and Deathsaurus’s tail strangled Tarn’s ankle. A big blue wing settled over Tarn like a shroud.

The beast’s tongue slid over Tarn’s throat as the DJD commander prayed to gods he didn’t believe in that his voice would come online in time.

Another lick.

_Do these animals taste their prey before biting?_

Another. The licking wasn’t even that unpleasant—warm, smooth, soft, if a little wet.

Fear turned to confusion. No pain. No _damage._

If Deathsaurus wanted to _hurt_ him, he would have done it by now.

The tongue laved over Tarn’s mask. A deep vibration massaged Tarn’s chest—some kind of animalistic purr.

With a burst of static, Tarn’s voxcoder came back online. “Deathsaurus,” he croaked. A far cry from his usual melodic tones.

Deathsaurus released his grip on Tarn’s neck and drew back to look Tarn eye-to-eye.

_He looks strange with two optics_ , Tarn thought, his head swimming. 

Tarn coughed. He wasn’t usually prone to such silly thoughts, and he had a very real situation to deal with. “Ah…beast mode?” Tarn inquired, hoping to broach the subject in a non-threatening manner.

The creature cocked its head and then changed shape.

Tarn struggled to sit up while Deathsaurus transformed, and he succeeded, but the converted Deathsaurus still saw fit to sling a leg over Tarn’s and dig his talons into Tarn’s chestplate. 

Deathsaurus used his other hand to scratch at the featherlike protrusions on the back of his neck. “Oh. Sorry,” he mumbled. 

Wasn’t that _precious_. Tarn had finally found Deathsaurus’s _sense of shame_.

Tarn’s self-satisfaction lasted exactly long enough for Deathsaurus to lean over, curl his talons into Tarn’s treads, furl his wings around them both, and resume licking Tarn’s throat.

Tarn stiffened.

What in the _Pit_ was going on? How did the leader of the Decepticon Justice Division find himself lying in someone else’s shattered berth being _groomed_ by that someone else’s _tongue_?

It wasn’t that the situation was all that unpleasant—quite the opposite, really. The mattress was soft enough and Deathsaurus’s frame was pleasantly warm, especially with that wing acting like a blanket, and the licking thing was bizarre but rather intimate, when one thought about it, and…

Deathsaurus stopped and drew back again.

What _now_?

The rogue commander’s lips curled, but his expression was too sad to be a smile. “Not into afterplay, are you?” Deathsaurus said. His disappointment was evident.

“After…play?” Tarn stammered.

Deathsaurus retreated, releasing his grip on Tarn and rising from the berth, pulling those lovely warm wings after him and wrapping them around himself like a blanket. Chill rushed in where a warm body had been, and Tarn realized that no, he didn’t want Deathsaurus to leave. 

Tarn reached out, but there was nothing much to grab onto. He settled for trailing his fingertips down the part of the wing within his reach and stumbled on his words when he spoke. “N-no, I didn’t say _that_.”

Well. That wouldn’t go down in history as one of his most eloquent moments. 

Fortunately, it communicated the essence of what Tarn wanted to express. Deathsaurus immediately brightened, curled up next to Tarn again, laid his head on Tarn’s shoulder tracks, and resumed purring. Tarn had no idea how someone that big could move that fast. Or what he was supposed to do with an armful of satisfied subcommander.

“I’d thought you weren’t interested,” Deathsaurus murmured. “Why so reluctant to touch me?”

“It’s not _you_ I’m not interested in. Lounging about in a broken bedframe, though…” Tarn frowned, and almost instinctively made a dismissive gesture with his hand. It was habit, now. He’d started gesturing more when he realized that nobody could see his expressions behind the mask.

“Oh.” Deathsaurus shoved himself up on one arm and surveyed the scene, as though he hadn’t noticed that the mattress was cocked at a crooked angle. Then he threw back his head and laughed. 

“Find it funny, do you.”

Deathsaurus grinned shamelessly. “Never had a frag that broke the berth before.” He sounded rather smug about it, too.

“I can’t sleep in this,” Tarn protested.

Deathsaurus snorted. “You’re that spoiled?”

Tarn was on the verge of making some comment about basic gentility when he took a closer look at Deathsaurus and the remark died on his lips. A yellow warning light flickered in the corner of Tarn’s vision. Maybe Tarn was misreading Deathsaurus, but the Warworld commander’s upper optics were narrowed, and there seemed to be something dark lurking in his lower optics. A lifetime of sophistication had not suppressed all of Tarn’s instincts. His subconscious warned him away from chiding his subcommander for his less civilized impulses. There was a dangerous undercurrent running not that far under Deathsaurus’s skin. It was, Tarn thought, rather like Megatron’s.

Instead, Tarn said lightly, “Humor me?”

Deathsaurus’s upper optics relaxed; the shadows fled his gaze. His entire mood seemed to change in an instant. “We, ah…we could go to my quarters,” Deathsaurus suggested. He wound the bedding through his talons while he waited for a reply. “You know. If you like.”

The warning light flashed again. Tarn’s instincts were alerting him to…something, but he had no idea what. The previous sense of threat was absent this time.

Deathsaurus’s voice was softer than usual, his words slower, and he was looking at Tarn’s entire face in a pleasant and benign manner. Deathsaurus _usually_ stared people straight in the optics when he spoke to them, in a way that Tarn had originally interpreted as a threat until he realized Deathsaurus did it to everyone. Deathsaurus came on strong and expected people to either stand up to him or step aside; he had no patience for social niceties. He could be trusted to speak his mind; he could _not_ be trusted to do so politely or obliquely. The fact that he was minding his manners now meant something was unusual. 

Tarn didn’t know, yet, if unusual meant _dangerous_. When Deathsaurus broke optic contact, Tarn realized he’d made a mistake. He’d spent too much time thinking without responding. But he didn’t know how to respond when he didn’t know what he was responding to.

“Oh,” Deathsaurus said. His gaze dropped to the floor. His wings flared, relaxed, flared again. The Warworld commander steeled himself and looked Tarn square in the optics—reverting back to his old self. He offered the DJD commander a crooked smile. “Too soon?”

Deathsaurus was off-balance, his control shaken. Tarn was _fascinated._ It was the other way around entirely too often for Tarn’s comfort. 

“No,” Tarn said smoothly, just to see what Deathsaurus would do. “Not at all.”

He didn’t know what he was saying no _to_ , but he couldn’t stop himself. Not when he finally had a chance to turn the tables and catch Deathsaurus on the wrong foot for a change.

Deathsaurus’s whole frame shivered. “Then shall we?”

“After you,” Tarn said, and he forced himself to sit for a few moments longer in the ruined berth just so he could watch Deathsaurus rise. The Warworld commander moved towards the door with an unusual hesitancy in his steps. His wings quivered in an unseen breeze. He stopped by the door and looked back over his shoulder at Tarn, a clear question on his face.

Deathsaurus. Uncertain. Tarn could watch this all _night_.

Tarn smiled, knowing the mask would hide it, and rose to his feet.

He had no idea what advantage he’d just been given, but be damned if he wasn’t going to see how far it could take him.


	7. Ember

Tarn joined Deathsaurus at the door to the room, admiring the way Deathsaurus’s wings twitched when he was nervous. Tarn had never noticed it before, and he wondered whether Deathsaurus had managed to control that twitch when they’d first met, or whether Tarn just hadn’t realized that Deathsaurus’s wing claws didn’t always clatter that way.

Tarn waited for Deathsaurus to lead the way to his quarters, but when the Warworld commander didn’t move for a whole minute, Tarn inquired, “Is there a problem?”

Deathsaurus glanced over his shoulder, optics flashing. “Look. If you don’t want rumours going around the Warworld with your name attached to mine, we’ll have to wait until that hallway is empty before going into my quarters.”

Belligerent as always. Tarn felt his temper flare. “And the fact that I was in your little _love nest_ isn’t going to start rumours?” Tarn hissed. He wasn’t even sure what had him feeling so upset: his own culpability in the current situation, the fact that he was about to _prolong_ it, or that Deathsaurus suddenly wanted to make his affair with Tarn into a dirty little secret—and after _publically showing_ footage of the consummation of their alliance.

“We’re talking an entirely different magnitude of rumour, and…” Deathsaurus broke off. “Wait. Hallway empty. _Go_.”

Tarn wanted to remind Deathsaurus that he didn’t take orders from the Warworld commander—it was the other way around. Still, the urgency in Deathsaurus’s voice, combined with the fact that the rogue commander had started moving even as he spoke, silenced him. Tarn had no opportunity to ask how what they were about to do could possibly be _worse_ than what they’d already done. 

Deathsaurus was already out the door and several steps down the corridor, moving with astonishing speed. Tarn couldn’t keep up with him, not without breaking stride. The Commander of the Decepticon Justice Division did not _trot_. 

Deathsaurus’s quarters, as it turned out, were not in the area of the Warworld designated for officers’ hab suites, where Tarn and the DJD had been given rooms. No, Deathsaurus apparently deigned to sleep right next to the _bridge_. 

Deathsaurus halted right before they entered the main corridor to the bridge. “Last door on the right before the bridge. I’ll go first. I can drop the surveillance on the corridor from my desk. Wait five minutes and come after me. If someone comes into the corridor, do a surprise inspection of the bridge, then join me in my quarters.”

Tarn huffed. “I’m not your subordinate.”

Deathsaurus peered at him. “It’s my quarters.”

His quarters, his rules. Tarn begrudgingly conceded the point. “Don’t get used to giving me commands.”

Deathsaurus grinned. “See you soon,” he said, dodging the rebuke, and stepped out into the corridor.

Tarn sighed. Now he was stuck playing this ridiculous cloak and dagger game. He rolled his optics and began counting down from five minutes.

…If there was something a little bit _fun_ about sticking his head into the corridor, checking to see if it was empty, and sneaking down the hall to Deathsaurus’s room, he wasn’t about to admit it. Tarn refused to acknowledge any nostalgia whatsoever for his long-ago days in Senator Shockwave’s little band of Outliers. That was another life under another name, and better forgotten.

The corridor was clear. Tarn knocked lightly on Deathsaurus’s door and the Warworld commander opened the portal to admit him. Tarn stepped inside and took a look around. 

Deathsaurus’s quarters were really not what he had expected. They were, to Tarn’s thinking, unpleasantly small. There was only one room, with a couch and entertainment centre to the left, a berth to the right, and a desk against the back wall. Anyone who came in here could see Deathsaurus’s berth and his personal effects, which were scattered everywhere, on tables, on his desktop, even on the floor. 

There was no privacy, Tarn thought with a shudder, until an idea occurred to him. Deathsaurus had his show quarters for casual lovers and, Tarn suspected, any other kind of meeting where Deathsaurus wanted to control the way that other mechs perceived him. Anyone Deathsaurus brought here, to his personal hab, was someone he’d chosen to share himself with. Tarn was beginning to grasp that such sharing existed at more levels than merely the physical. 

Tarn realized he should not be insulted that Deathsaurus hadn’t taken the time to prepare the room for him, even if Tarn’s definition of manners suggested that such was the proper behaviour for a mech who respected a superior officer…or wanted to entice a lover. Deathsaurus’s love nest was made of carefully constructed artifice. This room, on the other hand, was raw and honest. Deathsaurus was asking Tarn to accept him for who and what he truly was.

Still, Tarn struggled, given how distasteful he found the sight of half-consumed mugs of energon—who could _guess_ how long they’d been sitting out like that—and Deathsaurus’s abomination of a music collection. Tarn had not heard of half the singers and the other half he wished he hadn’t. Tarn had to keep reminding himself that the state of the room was the opposite of a personal affront. It was worn and battered but more than functional, like the Warworld and like Deathsaurus himself.

No, Tarn should be flattered that Deathsaurus had brought him here, because his presence in this room was not the equivalent of a slick coat of polish and a smooth turn of phrase. Being invited here was an unfiltered look into the heart of Deathsaurus’s being and _that_ , Tarn knew, was not the sort of thing which any wise Decepticon gave out lightly.

Still, Tarn was almost afraid to take a look at the sort of berth he’d be sleeping in.

It was surprisingly large—far too large for the size of room, in Tarn’s opinion—but at least he wouldn’t be crowded. The berth could probably fit four or five mechs of his size. The bedding, Tarn saw with relief, was high quality purple chamois—a little _garish_ , perhaps, what with the degree of shine and the boldness of the colour, but significantly better than old moldy canvas, which was what he’d been preparing himself to face. He would not have put it past Deathsaurus to sleep in something like that. Tarn pulled back the top tarp, thinking that this bedding was actually rather nice and…

Tarn hesitated.

There was a long seam in the _middle_ of the lower sheet, and it had been sewn with rough stitches in black contrasting thread. A repair. This sheet, at one time, had been slashed open.

_Patience_ , Tarn counselled himself. Deathsaurus was not wealthy. He put all his money back into the Warworld and its crew. That was why Tarn had been surprised that Deathsaurus would have bedding as nice as this. Tarn would have to expect Deathsaurus’s belongings to have been mended, and to show signs of wear and…

“Are these _burn holes_ ,” Tarn blurted, staring in amazement at the corner of the tarp in his hand.

Deathsaurus shrugged. “Price of plunder. Pulled these out of a building on fire. Nice, eh? They’re genuine chamois.”

Because of course Deathsaurus wouldn’t spend his money on luxury goods for himself. Of _course_ not. 

“Which you’d never buy, but finding them is a different matter,” Tarn said weakly.

“Yeah. And they were too damaged to sell. Lucky for me.” Deathsaurus leaned down onto his left side. “I’ve got to admit they are an _awfully_ nice indulgence.”

Tarn looked down at the berth with its mended and slightly burn-marked sheets and reminded himself that it was still an improvement over sleeping in a broken berth. Never mind that ordinarily this berth wouldn’t pass Tarn’s muster either. What was more important was the change that inviting Tarn here had wrought in Deathsaurus’s usual behaviour. If Tarn didn’t know better, he’d swear that Deathsaurus was _bashful_.

In fact, right _now_ , Deathsaurus was standing back, letting Tarn examine the berth. Tarn wasn’t yet ready to climb into it. He’d rather Deathsaurus go first, just in case he was misunderstanding the situation. 

“Go ahead,” Tarn murmured.

Deathsaurus’s optics flared and he ducked his head behind his wing so Tarn couldn’t see his face.

Oh, even _better_. Tarn couldn’t resist taking advantage now that the situation was reversed. “Second thoughts?”

“No.” Deathsaurus’s response was too quick, too vehement. He slunk into the berth with none of his outrageous posturing and without a single provocative comment. He rolled onto his side, facing Tarn, and looked up at him hopefully. Tarn thought he detected a hint of heat on the other mech’s cheeks and he smiled under his mask.

It wouldn’t do to make Deathsaurus beg. Tarn suspected that Deathsaurus could be pushed only so far—being cruel to him now would make him snap back to his old aggressive self. Tarn lifted up the chamois and slid into the berth next to Deathsaurus.

Tarn still wasn’t entirely sure what he was _doing_ , but he definitely felt more secure knowing that Deathsaurus was feeling more nervous than he was.

They lay there for a moment, near each other, the chamois draped over them. The berth was decently soft, but Tarn barely noticed. He watched Deathsaurus, waiting for the other Decepticon to make the first move, but Deathsaurus seemed hesitant. He reached out his hand but stopped before making contact with Tarn’s chest, and Tarn’s warning sensors prickled, because Deathsaurus had never had any qualms about touching him _under the table during a staff meeting_ , so why was he so tentative now?

Still, it was probably better if the Emperor started things. Maintain control and authority, and all that. Tarn remembered that Deathsaurus liked to have his neck feathers touched. Feeling impossibly awkward, Tarn folded his upper arm around Deathsaurus’s shoulder and extended his fingers, searching for the sweet spot at the root of the closest feather.

He knew when he found it. Deathsaurus’s optics flickered in delight and his engine began to purr. Tarn swore he could feel Deathsaurus’s whole frame melt against him. 

Tarn had never been so invested in making his pets _contented_. Well, first time for everything, new world order, et cetera. Tarn sought out another feather to rub, feeling rather satisfied himself. Tonight had been a lot more enjoyable than just using his own hand on his spike, and Deathsaurus had at least grasped the concept of discretion, even if he could still use some work when it came to _tact_.

Deathsaurus’s lips parted in an expression that was too relaxed to be a gasp, and too alert to be a sigh. “Mmm…right there….”

Tarn couldn’t help his smile as he indulged his subcommander. Strangely enough, he didn’t feel the usual sense of victory that tended to accompany his smiles. Ordinarily he smiled when a carefully arranged sequence of events had been brought to their well-orchestrated conclusion. He had no idea why he was smiling now. He really had no reason to be. He still wasn’t certain how he’d ended up here in Deathsaurus’s private hab, and he ought to be more worried about the fact that he had absolutely no idea what would happen next.

Maybe it was simply that he felt happy, for reasons he couldn’t quite rationalize.

Deathsaurus mumbled something that was drowned out by his loud purrs. “Excuse me?” Tarn said.

Deathsaurus breathed in, and Tarn could tell he was working to suppress his rumbling engines. “I said I’m not sure how to return the favour,” Deathsaurus murmured, his words slightly slurred, his optics drowsy with pleasure. “What do you like?”

So much for relaxed. Tarn felt his spark swirl madly while his throat clenched shut. 

What good was weaponized conversation when he was at a complete loss for words?


	8. Flashpoint

Chapter Eight: Flashpoint

Tarn had no idea how to answer Deathsaurus’s question.

_What do you like?_

For Fortune’s sake, they’d interfaced less than an hour ago. Tarn had started getting restless about the broken berth right at the point when Megatron used to rise from the berth, mutter something about all the demands on his time, and clap Tarn on the shoulder, as though congratulating him for yet another job well done. If Tarn were really lucky, sometimes Megatron dropped a blanket over him and let him go into recharge, savouring Megatron’s scent on his frame. If Tarn wasn’t lucky, Megatron hauled him up too and handed him a datapad of instructions— _additions to the List; best get started_.

Tarn had not followed Megatron’s example. He’d come here with Deathsaurus in search of something more, but he had precious little idea of what that something might be. Surely not more interfacing. Deathsaurus looked half-asleep and Tarn doubted his spike would be ready for another round any time soon, given how roughly he’d used it tonight.

But Tarn had no intention of admitting his knowledge deficit to Deathsaurus, not now that he’d acquired some mysterious advantage in taking up Deathsaurus on his impulsive invitation to his private quarters. 

“Why don’t you find out for yourself what I like?” Tarn asked archly.

Deathsaurus grinned. “Oh, a challenge? Sounds like _fun_ ,” he whispered. Utterly undeterred, he sent his talons wandering across Tarn’s back. 

Tarn allowed himself a smug smile under the mask. He was starting to learn how to play his unpredictable subcommander. Deathsaurus, it seemed, couldn’t resist a gauntlet cast down in front of him. 

Tarn settled into Deathsaurus’s berth, his chest pressed against Deathsaurus’s, his frame cocooned under the warlord’s wing, and let Deathsaurus explore his body. He felt a little awkward, given that he didn’t know what he was supposed to be doing, but truth be told, this wasn’t such a bad experience. Deathsaurus continued to trill when Tarn rubbed under his wings, and Deathsaurus’s touch on his back was strange but not unpleasant. The berth was soft, and best of all, Deathsaurus was _warm_. 

Tarn could never quite get warm, not even under his soft chamois tarps on the _Peaceful Tyranny_. He recognized that his frame was at the upper limits of the size his spark could support, and if he didn’t like cold limbs or numb extremities then he ought to downsize—or accept that the imposing body he sported had a price attached. Occasionally, in moments of fancy, he imagined that the chill of Messatine had gotten under his plating and iced his very spark. Well, he was warm _now_ , and loving every minute of it. Deathsaurus just radiated heat and Tarn revelled in the warmth.

Then Deathsaurus’s talons slipped under the tracks on Tarn’s shoulders and Tarn gasped.

Deathsaurus froze. Tarn drew in a ragged breath. Then Deathsaurus moved his fingers…slowly, deliberately…and Tarn was shocked by the moan that came out of his mouth.

“Ah, _there_ ,” Deathsaurus murmured, and before Tarn could protest, Deathsaurus began exploiting the soft spot he’d found.

Tarn knew his tracks were sensitive, but nobody had ever touched them quite like _this_. What remained of Tarn’s rational mind told him that it had to be the claws. Blunt fingertips couldn’t slip into the tiny little crevasses between track plates, or pluck the delicate chains inside. Deathsaurus’s sharp talons could probe much deeper, and for all the Warworld commander was an animal and a savage, he also had the self-control to move those claws with exquisite precision. Tarn’s engines played a note that Tarn had never heard from them before. He would be alarmed if it wasn’t all so very _wonderful_.

Tarn stopped rubbing Deathsaurus’s wings and started clutching at the Warworld commander’s back, holding on for dear life as his frame shuddered with the release of tension he hadn’t even realized he was storing in his tracks. By the Cause, that felt good. His head spun with an intoxicating rush of pleasure—not the sharp, overpowering lust of a building overload, but the heady indulgence of intense, prolonged physical care.

Deathsaurus made a sound that might have been a chuckle, and Tarn felt a spear of fright stab him in the spark. There was a terrible, potentially deadly problem if a subordinate could reduce his Emperor to a dizzy, moaning wreck…particularly when that subordinate was already infamous for being rebellious, impulsive, and dangerous. Tarn ought to be teaching Deathsaurus to mind his place. What he was doing now was the _opposite_ of reinforcing the chain of command.

But it felt too good to stop.

Deathsaurus slowly, meticulously made his way through Tarn’s entire upper shoulder, and then urged him to roll over, so he could do the other side. Tarn’s head cleared somewhat as he moved and he decided he would _not_ fall so completely under Deathsaurus’s spell this time. He vowed to be at _least_ as thorough with Deathsaurus’s other wing.

Tarn wasn’t sure how long they spent twined together, Deathsaurus’s talons in his tracks, his fingers weaving through Deathsaurus’s wing blades, each of them gasping and moaning their appreciation in an exchange very like a conversation. In the end, they changed positions one more time and settled into a session of less intense but no less pleasant mutual caressing: spinal strut, hip, lower back. By this point Tarn found himself lulled into a state very like the first stages of recharge, though he had recharged very recently and didn’t need to do so again so soon. 

It took him some time to realize that Deathsaurus was asleep.

Tarn stopped lightly stroking the other mech’s back. Deathsaurus did not stir. Tarn brightened his optics only to notice that all four of Deathsaurus’s had been dimmed. The Warworld commander breathed slowly and evenly, deep in contented slumber.

Tarn felt a strange warm sensation in the vicinity of his spark. There weren’t many mechanisms who would have the courage to fall into recharge in his presence. It was as though Deathsaurus _trusted_ him.

Or maybe he’d fragged his subcommander nine-tenths of the way into stasis and it had just taken a little time for a mech like Deathsaurus to run out of steam.

Well. Tarn supposed he couldn’t be angry. He _had_ put the Warworld commander through his paces, back in the other room. 

And Tarn, though tired from the night’s exertions, found himself waking up. He rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling, hands behind his head. Deathsaurus snuggled closer to him, folding a wing over his chest.

_What in the Pit was he doing here?_

Fragging his subcommander was bad enough. Tarn didn’t interface with his team; he wouldn’t have interfaced with Deathsaurus either if the Warworld commander hadn’t insisted they seal their alliance the way it was traditionally done on the Rim. Tarn still wasn’t sure why they’d _kept_ interfacing. Deathsaurus might just be a randy animal…but why was it so hard for Tarn to say no?

And what they’d just done here in Deathsaurus’s quarters…this hadn’t been interfacing.

Holding one another. Caressing one another. Sharing warmth. 

_It’s nothing_ , Tarn reassured himself. _Just a little mushy stuff, that’s all._

Tarn sat bolt upright in bed as a horrific thought occurred to him.

Was this _courtship_ behaviour? 

Fragging for entertainment and to blow off steam was one thing, but this _cuddling_ business wasn’t fragging. It was more akin to _romance._

And _romance_ was what Tarn had wanted from Megatron, but after those heady early years, his encounters with Megatron had swiftly faded into routine trysts whenever Megatron deigned to spare a few private moments. Sometimes he had wondered whether Megatron was merely humouring him, and then he would chide himself for daring to question his Emperor’s will.

Tarn had constructed a narrative of sacrifice and suffering to explain his life. He asked all other Decepticons to sacrifice for the Empire and made them suffer if they failed to meet Megatron’s standards. He sacrificed his own needs and desires for the sake of being the instrument of Megatron’s judgment. He suffered for his Lord, and through his self-sacrifice, his suffering became a pure and holy thing. Through suffering, the List’s transgressors were cleansed.

Tarn glanced over at Deathsaurus and wondered what the Warworld commander would say if he was asked to suffer for suffering’s sake. Then it occurred to him that he already knew. Megatron has asked Deathsaurus to run an unnecessary risk and Deathsaurus had turned his back on the Empire and walked away.

Tarn could not imagine Deathsaurus staying in a relationship that failed to make him happy. Deathsaurus would never rationalize being left wanting as…as some kind of philosophical statement on the virtue of sacrifice. 

_Maybe Deathsaurus doesn’t think. Maybe he just fucks._

Except what they’d done in this berth had not been _fucking._

Memories flooded Tarn’s mind. Deathsaurus looking at the floor, wings twitching, shuffling his feet. Deathsaurus inviting Tarn back to his quarters…the quarters he kept separate from the room where he brought his lovers. Then that hesitant question: _too soon_?

Understanding struck Tarn like a divine revelation.

_Deathsaurus was off balance because he_ likes _me._

Which was a different thing entirely from _wants to frag me_ , even though the two could be related to one another.

And which sent Tarn’s mind into a wild and terrified spin.


	9. Flare

Chapter Nine: Flare 

_Who could possibly_ like _“the most terrible life sign of all?”_

Tarn felt his palms grow clammy as his fuel pump pounded in his chest. Could this really be possible? Did Deathsaurus…was Tarn’s presence here in Deathsaurus’s berth completely unrelated to rank and power and political maneuverings, and wholly different from the lust they’d slaked back in the other bed? Was he here simply because Deathsaurus liked him and wanted to be near him? 

Deathsaurus could have fragged practically anyone on the Warworld tonight. And Tarn would not have noticed anything amiss if Deathsaurus had gotten up and left the broken berth…the way Megatron would have done. 

Tarn’s systems fluctuated wildly. _Dear Mortilus. Deathsaurus likes me._

Which begged another question: _Do I like him?_

Tarn didn’t even know where to begin parsing that question. His soul belonged to Megatron, full stop. 

Didn’t it? 

The very possibility that he might be feeling some manner of…of _romantic attraction_ for someone who was _not_ Megatron was _unthinkable_. Fragging for pleasure was one thing, but affection was an entirely different order of magnitude. Tarn felt dirty just considering the option, like some sort of filthy _cheater_. Like a _traitor_. 

What was _wrong_ with him? 

And right on the heels of his crushing guilt came a sudden vehement anger. 

_It would serve Megatron right, after what he’s done._

Yes. If Megatron hadn’t betrayed his own Cause, Tarn would not be _here_ , on this Warworld, in Deathsaurus’s berth. Megatron had upended the natural order of things and what happened afterwards was on _his_ head. 

Tarn huffed and snuggled closer to Deathsaurus. He dimmed his optics and _willed_ himself to enter recharge. But he’d recharged just the other day; his body wasn’t ready to recharge again so soon. 

Tarn carefully lifted Deathsaurus’s wing and rolled out of the berth. Deathsaurus moaned in his sleep, running his talons over the spot that Tarn had vacated. Tarn thought quickly. He took his pillow, still warm from the way he’d been lying on it, and tucked it under the tarp, under Deathsaurus’s searching arm. Deathsaurus sniffed it, then snuggled up into it, smiling with contentment. 

Tarn felt a little badly at deceiving Deathsaurus. He’d thought he’d make his way back to his own quarters, but a feeling of longing tugged at his spark. He didn’t want to go back to his office to work. He wanted to stay here with his very warm, very affectionate subcommander. 

So. Tarn sat down at Deathsaurus’s desk. He’d find something to do for a while and hopefully he’d be able to relax and recharge before Deathsaurus woke up. 

He gazed around the room. Deathsaurus’s Great Sword, scimitar, morningstar and rifle hung on racks next to the door. A cabinet held datapads and a jury-rigged sound system and a collection of music that Tarn would gladly toss out the nearest airlock. Deathsaurus had mounted something unusual over his desk: it was either modern art that was too out-there for Tarn’s more classical tastes, or it was a piece of rusty scrap metal covered with roughly painted numbers and letters. What did “DESZARAS-336” mean? Tarn shook his head, uncertain what to make of Deathsaurus’s choice of decorations. 

Tarn ignored the scattering of datapads and the half-consumed mug of energon on the desktop to focus in on the desk’s single ornament: a holograph in a frame. Tarn examined the image closely. Three mechanisms he didn’t recognize, all smiling for the camera despite the dirt streaking their frames and the dents marring their finishes. A large blue mech stood in the center, his arms around two almost-identical teal jets. 

Tarn realized with a start that he was looking at Deathsaurus. 

Young Deathsaurus. Deathsaurus with no colourful crest on his helm, no gold horns on his chest, and no sharp metal tips on his wing-hands. He looked smaller, leaner, his armour much lighter-weight, his frame not yet embellished with spines and spikes and shiny trim. Tarn guessed one of the jets was that troublemaker Leozack. Both of the jets had leonine helmets sitting slightly askew on their heads, as though they were after-market decorations rather than part of their head architecture. All three looked like genericons. Except… 

There was something not quite _right_ about Deathsaurus. A little too sharp, a little too asymmetrical, a little too bestial…Tarn couldn’t quite pin down what it was. He couldn’t shake the fanciful idea that Deathsaurus looked as though he’d been intended for a certain purpose and ended up becoming something else entirely. And Tarn felt as though he ought to know, somehow, rather than simply guessing. 

Tarn glanced over his shoulder at the beastformer sleeping in the berth, and back to the holograph. Deathsaurus was so much bigger and flashier now. Tarn wondered what had brought the mech in the picture to the captain’s quarters of the Warworld. 

Tarn felt his spark clench as he realized he _didn’t know_. 

Didn’t know and hadn’t cared. When he’d put Deathsaurus on the List, all that had mattered to him was that Deathsaurus had stolen a Warworld and led his troops astray from the glorious Cause. Tarn had not cared about _why_. Ugly rumours that Deathsaurus had been sent on a suicide mission for no good reason had meant nothing to the Decepticon Justice Division. 

Now Deathsaurus slept soundly with Tarn only a few scant feet away. Worse, Deathsaurus would sleep just as deeply in Tarn’s arms. 

Tarn felt oddly guilty. Perhaps it was simply that knowing his past deeds had been Megatron’s will was no longer enough to convince him of their rightness now that Megatron’s will was in question. But Tarn suspected there was more to it than that. 

Tarn had a terrible suspicion that he was becoming rather _fond_ of his subcommander. 

He was going to have to find out how that no-account genericon in the holograph had become the fearsome rogue warlord he knew. Maybe, Tarn thought ruefully, Deathsaurus might start making more _sense_ to him if he had some idea of what the mech’s life had been like, and how that life might have shaped him. 

But Tarn felt a deep reluctance to ask. If he did, Deathsaurus might feel entitled to ask the same sorts of questions in return, and there was no way Tarn wanted to talk about the things that had brought him here. About the nobody he’d been before he put on the mask. 

No, it would be better to find another way to learn about Deathsaurus. For example, he was sitting right here at the mech’s desk, and there were datapads sitting right in front of him. 

Part of him couldn’t believe that he was being so crass as to consider going through another mech’s belongings without permission. A voice in his head reminded him that there had been precious little _gentility_ this night. Besides, Deathsaurus had invited him here—surely he’d have hidden anything confidential. If he hadn’t, that wasn’t Tarn’s fault. 

Tarn hesitated, looking over at the berth, but Deathsaurus was still breathing slowly and evenly. Tarn turned on the top datapad before he could think better of it. 

An image bloomed on the screen. 

His _own_ image. 

Tarn’s mouth went dry. He clicked the screen—a picture gallery, from the look of it. Tarn with the DJD. Tarn with Megatron. Tarn in alt mode. Tarn from all angles. Old images, new images, a handful from the Warworld’s security cameras, but most dating back several centuries or more. 

There was something rather stalker-like about Deathsaurus having all these images of Tarn in his possession. Tarn decided to be worried about it after he was done feeling _flattered_. His spark felt warm and cozy at the idea that Deathsaurus had been collecting images of _him_. Just the way he collected photos and holos of Megatron. It was a strange feeling, being on the receiving end, but Tarn decided he rather _liked_ it. 

Until he exited out of the image gallery and saw what else was on the datapad. 

Deathsaurus had accumulated quite a good deal of data about Tarn. A CV with cross references. A record of his location throughout the centuries. Specifications of Tarn’s weaponry. _Medical reports_. Voice samples…rather a lot of voice samples…and reports on the DJD’s victims. Files on the other DJD members as well. Schematics of the _Peaceful Tyranny_ , including transponder identification codes. A…Tarn spluttered…a _floor plan_ of the DJD’s base on Messatine… 

_That was supposed to be top secret!_

And a file on Tarn’s weaknesses, including, to Tarn’s horror, a reference to exactly the type of explosives that Deathsaurus had handed to him the day he’d shown up on the Warworld to chat. 

The warmth in Tarn’s spark evaporated as his tanks turned over and his gut clenched. He gasped with shock and actual physical pain. This wasn’t a private collection of memorabilia for Deathsaurus to swoon over in private. This was a _mission file_. Deathsaurus had been gathering data with the express purpose of ferreting out Tarn’s habits and weaknesses so he could use them against him. 

Tarn rose to his feet, agitated, angry and frightened in equal measure. His fists clenched as he stared at the monster sleeping soundly in the berth, utterly unconcerned about the damning evidence he’d left lying out on his desktop. 

_You can’t find anyone faithful, can you?_ Tarn asked himself. 

_Not your old friends. Skids. Roller. Trailbreaker. Windcharger. Orion Pax._

_Not the former Vos. Dominus Ambus._

_Not Megatron._

_And not Deathsaurus._

Tarn trembled, almost overcome by emotions he couldn’t even name. 

What should he _do_ , now that he had the evidence of betrayal in his hands? Wait…and potentially give Deathsaurus the opportunity to use the information in that file? Attack Deathsaurus now, while his guard was down? Attack him while he was sleeping? 

_Are you stupid enough to wake him up first out of some misguided chivalry?_ said a voice in his head. _Give him the courtesy of a fair fight?_

_But_ , argued another voice, _Deathsaurus didn’t attack_ you _, that first night. That night when you passed out in front of him from the fatigue of your suicide attempt and too much nuke._

Surely Deathsaurus had possessed most of the information in this file already then, on that first night when Tarn had been at Deathsaurus’s mercy. He’d known what explosives to use, after all. 

Tarn felt his spark torn between those two versions of himself. The first voice spoke with the cold voice of justice, urging him to kill before he got killed, telling him he had all the proof of guilt he needed right there on the desktop. Telling him to put an end to his feelings of confusion and disorientation with a few blasts of purifying fire. The second spoke from somewhere deep inside, reminding him that he’d slept safely next to Deathsaurus on a night when he couldn’t defend himself, and now Deathsaurus slept with equal trust in front of him. 

He didn’t know what to _do_. 

And he no longer had Megatron to guide him. 

While he stood there, helplessly indecisive, Deathsaurus stirred in the berth. He bunted the pillow and realized that Tarn was no longer next to him. His arm reached out; his talons searched the empty berth. 

Tarn drew in a ragged breath. 

Groggily, Deathsaurus lifted his head. His primary optics remained dark, but his vestigial beast optics lit. Tarn wondered if he’d _misjudged_ which optics were Deathsaurus’s primaries. He had a terrible feeling the ones on _top_ were the main ones. 

_If you’re going to attack him, you’re losing your advantage._

Deathsaurus made a sound, halfway between a grunt and a whine, that was obviously a question. He tilted his head and patted the berth next to him, shoving Tarn’s pillow out of the way and back to its previous position. 

“You’ve got a file on your desk,” Tarn said softly. He felt as though his spark were in his throat. “A file about how to kill me.” 


	10. Hot Spot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank everyone who commented on the last chapter.
> 
> I'd already written this chapter at the time I posted the previous one, but, given the numerous comments from people who particularly wanted to see how Deathsaurus reacted to Tarn's final words of Chapter 9, I decided to go back and expand this chapter, and focus a little more on Deathsaurus's response. And I think the story is better for doing it.
> 
> So, to everyone who's ever wondered if commenting makes a difference....yes, it does. Thank you.
> 
> (Also, I've now corrected the formatting in the previous chapter.)
> 
> *

Chapter Ten: Hot Spot 

The gauntlet had been cast. Tarn stared at Deathsaurus, his spark in his throat, waiting for the rogue commander to explode into violence. 

Tarn had discovered his associate’s secret. Had found the file on Deathsaurus’s datapad, detailing everything Deathsaurus had been able to find out about the DJD, about their equipment, and about Tarn himself…and the battle plans Deathsaurus had designed, using that information. 

They’d fragged. Deathsaurus had invited Tarn to his private quarters. They’d… _cuddled_ or whatever. And all along, Deathsaurus had had a plan to murder Tarn tucked away in his mind. 

Tarn watched as Deathsaurus’s lower optics flickered red. 

For an instant he regretted his words. If only he could take them back, he could at least have enjoyed a night with Deathsaurus in his arms before he’d made his accusations. Now, though, it was too late. 

_You’ve got a file on your desk_ , he had said. _A file about how to kill me._

Deathsaurus focused his optics on Tarn and snorted. “As if you don’t have a file about how to kill _me_.” 

Tarn blinked. It had never occurred to him… but yes, of _course_ the DJD had a file about everyone on their List. He supposed Deathsaurus had a point. 

The rogue warlord was obviously drowsy, but Deathsaurus hadn’t survived this long by being foolish. Tarn swore he saw the moment Deathsaurus’s instincts kicked in and told him that something was amiss. All four optics flashed, both wings lifted, and he inhaled deeply through his vents. His shifted to get his limbs under him as his gaze sharpened. 

“That’s really bothering you,” Deathsaurus said, now entirely awake and regarding Tarn warily. 

Now Tarn felt foolish. “I’m….well, I’m not accustomed to being on the receiving end,” he stammered, hating himself for sounding stupid. A moment later anger burned away his shame. “It was just…just lying out on your desk!” 

“And hiding it wouldn’t be a bigger problem?” 

“The _problem_ is what you intend to do with it!” 

Deathsaurus raised an optic ridge. “These days? Checking out your rear view, mostly.” 

Tarn spluttered. His engine felt as though it were on the verge of a stall. 

“And trying to find out what you like. I don’t know much about the classics and it would ruin the surprise to ask.” Deathsaurus’s optics dimmed and his fangs gaped in a yawn. “Can we discuss this in the morning?” He shifted his wing, lifting the tarp from the berth. Clearly his instincts had told him the danger was over and his fatigue was settling back in. 

Tarn wrung his hands, anxious and indecisive. Could he forgive Deathsaurus for doing…what the DJD did? Could he expect Deathsaurus to forgive _him_ for putting him on the List? 

Deathsaurus was dangerous. The file proved it. But Tarn himself was surely no _less_ dangerous. 

He always had his voice. 

Going back to bed didn’t mean he had to _sleep_. 

Tarn knew what he _wanted_ , whether it made sense or not. He accepted the lifted tarp and crept back into the berth next to Deathsaurus. 

Deathsaurus nuzzled him, bunting his nose against Tarn’s shoulder in a gesture that Tarn guessed was intended to be affectionate. Tarn stroked Deathsaurus’s helm and listened to the purr grow louder. The rogue commander’s breathing evened out and Tarn suspected that his berthmate was back in recharge again. 

“What am I going to do with you?” Tarn murmured. Tentatively, he stroked the rogue’s helm. 

Deathsaurus sighed contentedly. The corner of his mouth lifted, not in a smirk or an ironic admission but in a soft and genuine smile. 

_I make him happy._

Once again, Tarn had no idea what to _do_ with that knowledge. There was still a part of him that felt guilty for lying here in Deathsaurus’s hab, in Deathsaurus’s berth, snuggled up with the Warworld’s commander. There was still a part of him that desperately wished it was Megatron holding him this way. 

What would have happened if he’d met Deathsaurus before he’d met Megatron? Would he have felt for the bestial rogue what he had felt…what he _still_ felt…for the mech who was, despite his treachery, still the Emperor of Tarn’s spark? 

Tarn looked down and supposed he would never know. The question itself was useless. He had already been the Commandant of Grindcore before Deathsaurus had even been a blueprint on his creators’ drawing board. Tarn knew that for a fact. Deathsaurus was one of the “super-MTOs” built with the raw materials that Tarn had been tasked to harvest from Grindcore’s prison population. 

There had been no way he could have met Deathsaurus before he met Megatron. There was also no way he could have met Deathsaurus _without_ Megatron, because the Super MTOs had been Megatron’s idea. 

Tarn could lie awake for the rest of eternity playing “what-if” and never come to a satisfactory conclusion. Better he spend his time asking himself questions he might have a hope of someday answering. 

_Can you ever feel for Deathsaurus what you feel for Megatron?_

_Or is your spark spinning purely out of spite and the natural physiological response to a warm, willing frame next to yours?_

A warm, willing frame that was large, sturdy, and armoured enough for Tarn to be able to convincingly pretend it was Megatron if he dimmed his optics. 

That was something new, in Tarn’s experience. Yet he did not want to take advantage of this opportunity he’d been given to imagine, even for a few moments, that the slaughter on the _Lost Light_ and everything that came after had been some kind of terrible dream and he was now in Megatron’s embrace, finally receiving his Lord’s admiration. There was nothing to be gained from pretenses, however tempting they might be. 

Instead, he lay awake in the dark, studying the exotic form of his new lover. So many pointy bits…claws on his wings, horns on his chestplate, spines of all description on his helm. Deathsaurus was no manual class—no machine created for labour. 

Though Deathsaurus was war built, but his alt mode dated back to a time when society was not yet sorted into classes and tiers. He was a creature designed purely to secure its own survival: to hunt and fight and in the end to dominate. There was something ancient about him, raw and primal. 

But the mind in that frame was painfully young, too young to remember the rise of the Decepticons or Megatron as he had been when his fiery words had captivated Tarn’s spark. Tarn wondered what had possessed the frame’s designer to choose an alt mode based on a type of Cybertronian that had almost gone extinct and were certainly still discriminated against…for what could such a creature possibly be “for” under the banner of the Functionists? 

_For the battlefield, of course._

_The laws of a predator’s nature stripped down to their most fundamental level: kill or die._

The Decepticons had created MTOs by the thousands and by the thousands they’d perished. The Autobots had done it first…Tarn kept telling himself that, because there seemed to him to be some fundamental disconnect in the idea that a faction formed in response to the unfairness of one’s alt mode being one’s destiny would throw newborn mechs onto the battlefield. But they’d had no choice. The Autobots had done it first. The Decepticons had needed to do the same for the Cause to survive. 

And Deathsaurus had survived, and thrived, because body and spark were both so well suited for the environment they found themselves cast into. 

_He’s dangerous_ , Tarn reminded himself. _He’s got no concept of any existence save combat against impossible odds. He was born defiant and that’s why he’s still alive._

_…Is there any wonder he went rogue, then?_

Tarn should be worried. Instead he found himself admiring the blue outlaw in his arms. There was something…dare he say it? 

Dare he even _think_ it? 

There was something very like Megatron about him. Not the traitor who had surrendered to the Autobots and abandoned the Decepticons, but the firebrand who had let his rage be the flint that sparked a revolution. The Megatron that had charmed a lost spark and recreated him in his own image and gave him the purple sigil for a face and named him Tarn. But Deathsaurus would not have turned Damus into his possession, his tool. Deathsaurus would have blazed a path forward and told Damus to follow if he dared. 

Tarn still wasn’t sure if he _cared for_ Deathsaurus, but even the notion that he _could_ …that he _might_ , in time, come to feel something for the rogue commander that had nothing to do with his skills either on the battlefield or in the berth…the very idea was terrifying. Tarn knew that the wise thing to do would be to put a stop to this nonsense, _now_ , before he said or did something that would negatively impact the Decepticon Cause. To turn away from that terrible choice: whether, or not, to follow where Deathsaurus was leading him. 

But Tarn had never been particularly good at denying himself his indulgences. Not when the berth was soft and Deathsaurus was warm and surely another minute in his subcommander’s arms wouldn’t hurt. Just one more minute to savour the pleasure and comfort before he gave it up for good. 

And with that thought lingering in his mind… _I need to put a stop to this before it gets out of hand…_ Tarn cuddled closer to Deathsaurus, dimmed his optics, and slipped into recharge. 


	11. Slow Burn

Chapter Eleven: Slow Burn 

Tarn slept fitfully as weird dreams flitted through his mind. There was just something about being in berth _with Megatron_ that made it hard to relax. It was so very exciting to be here at last, here where he’d longed to be for so many millennia…here in his Lord’s arms. 

Except that tangled up in his dreams was the figure of some kind of creature, and he didn’t even know what the beast was called. Avian and dragon and griffin and dinosaur and monster all wrapped up together. The only word he could think of to define it was a…a death-saurus. 

In his sleep he stood before the creature, and he _reached out his hand to it_ , and his brain screamed at him that he was a _fool_ for trying to touch the thing when he ought to be recoiling from it instead, and his spark swirled madly and wondered what those feather-like protrusions might feel like beneath his caress. 

The creature opened its beak, to lick him or to bite him, he did not know, and before he could find out, he woke up. 

He was resting on his side, in a rather small room that smelled like slightly stale energon, cheap oil, and smoke, and there was someone lying against his back. The unknown someone was slightly taller than he was—tall enough to bend his head to Tarn’s shoulder. He was warm, radiating cozy heat into Tarn’s back. He was sturdy and firm when Tarn leaned back against him. 

But the arm curved over Tarn’s side was coloured a deep and brilliant blue, and the fingers splayed over Tarn’s chest were tipped with sharp talons. 

_That wasn’t Megatron_ . 

A chill ran down Tarn’s spinal strut. 

Fortunately, the one benefit of a fitful recharge was the fact that Tarn’s memory didn’t need to reboot. It only took a second for Tarn’s mind to process his recollections and provide an answer to the question of who he was sharing a berth with. 

_Deathsaurus._

Tarn relaxed. He wasn’t in the berth with a stranger. He was engaged in the perfectly normal activity of… 

Another memory file opened. Another chill ran down Tarn’s back. 

He was having some kind of sordid affair with his new field marshal and _worse_ , that affair was dancing on the line between casual interface and actual _romance_. 

It wasn’t like him. He didn’t frag his own staff. He _certainly_ didn’t develop attachments for anyone other than his Lord and, to a lesser degree, his team. 

_Even if Megatron abandoned you?_

Tarn shook his head. This berth was not the place to be considering whether it would be wrong to offer Deathsaurus what Megatron threw away. 

…was Tarn even worth having, now that Megatron had thrown him away? 

Tarn suspected he would be thinking on these matters for many nights to come. In the meantime, though, he had to get out of this berth and back to his own quarters before Deathsaurus woke up. 

That was how it was done, wasn’t it? If you were having a fling with someone in his quarters, it was good manners to show yourself out before morning, right? 

And he’d better be circumspect about how he did it, too, given Deathsaurus slept next to the bridge and apparently what they were up to here was some kind of filthy secret. Tarn felt shameful, dirty even. Maybe Deathsaurus didn’t want his crew to know that he was grazing on Megatron’s leftovers. 

Except Deathsaurus had been more than happy to show the entire Warworld their _first_ encounter. 

But that had been _business_. A formal sealing of the alliance under Rim custom. This was entirely different. This was just for _fun_. 

Even Tarn had to admit that _fun_ did not sound like a solid justification. 

Tarn continued arguing with himself as he pulled back the slightly singed, carefully repaired chamois, slipped out of bed, and tucked the blankets back in around Deathsaurus. He tiptoed across the room, unaccustomed to silent motion. Usually his footfalls rang ominously in the corridors, letting everyone know that their Judge, Jury and Executioner was on his way. Tarn was really not built for _sneaking._

Tarn leaned against the door, pressing his mask’s right eyehole up against a viewing slot, trying to see if anyone was in the corridor. His hand rested on the panel that would open the door. 

“Tarn?” came a voice behind him. 

So much for leaving without waking up Deathsaurus. 

Tarn turned and discovered, to his shock, that Deathsaurus was out of the berth and already more than halfway across the room. Talk about silent motion. Nobody that big should be able to move so quietly. It was unsettling, and predatory, and… 

Tarn felt his mouth go dry. 

_When had he started to appreciate “predatory?”_

Deathsaurus stopped a pace away and tilted his head. “Work?” he inquired, and he sounded disappointed. 

_There, that’s an easy out. Tell him you have work to do. Work that can’t wait._

“Er, not necessarily,” Tarn said instead. 

Deathsaurus cocked his optic ridges on one side of his head. 

Tarn scolded himself for not lying, but he couldn’t manage sincere regret. Besides, Deathsaurus valued honesty and transparency. Tarn would not risk this alliance by making a habit of telling falsehoods. 

Except, perhaps, to himself, because he suspected his motivations might be less about respecting his ally’s values and more about his own desire to linger in Deathsaurus’s berth. 

Could such a thing be possible? 

Tarn stood there, realizing that Deathsaurus didn’t want him to go and wondering how he could maneuver himself back into Deathsaurus’s berth now that he’d announced his intention to leave. While Tarn thought, Deathsaurus spoke. 

“Sorry,” Deathsaurus murmured, and there was that awkward tilt of the head again, followed by the bashful shading of the lower half of his face by his wing. Tarn watched with fascination as Deathsaurus struggled to stop himself from hiding his optics. “I’m being clingy, aren’t I?” 

_Clingy_ . That was the word Megatron had often used to describe _Tarn_. Tarn had never quite grasped what Megatron meant by it, only that it was a bad thing. 

But why was devotion to his Lord bad? It was as though…as though Megatron wanted Tarn’s _loyalty_ , but not his _presence_. 

What was wrong with wanting to spend time with one’s lover? What was wrong with desiring to touch them, or craving their touch in return? Why had Tarn always felt so _starved_? Why was asking for _enough to satisfy_ such an unreasonable demand? 

“You’re not satisfied,” Tarn murmured. 

Deathsaurus lowered his wing. His lip curled, but there was no venom in it. “I can make do,” he said defensively, and oh, Tarn knew exactly how that felt. He had _made do_ for so long with the little that Megatron had given him. 

“I’m sure you can,” Tarn said gently, so as not to insult his ally. Deathsaurus had pride, Tarn was coming to understand. Not the sort of pride that came with signifiers of status, but the sort earned by years of spilled energon and dirty tears. Tarn would not offend that pride by implying that Deathsaurus was incapable of surviving anything the universe threw at him. He needed only suggest that perhaps, this time, this challenge did not need to be faced. “But do you _want_ to?” 

Deathsaurus eyed him warily. “You already know I don’t.” 

Right. Tarn needed an opening, an excuse to give himself and Deathsaurus what they both wanted, and he was going to have to make it himself. He affected a sigh. “I’m fishing for an invitation, Deathsaurus. An affirmation that I’m not forcing my presence on you because you feel you can’t tell me to leave.” 

“It’s my room,” Deathsaurus countered. 

Right. If anyone would kick the leader of the DJD out of a hab suite, it would be Deathsaurus. 

Tarn sighed. “Humour me and give me an invitation back to your berth if you want me there. I, ah, I need at least an attempt at social graces if there’s going to be any future in this relationship.” 

He’d only said it to make Deathsaurus show his hand. Tarn only realized as he spoke the words that they were true. 

_And you just implied that you want there to be a future in this relationship._

_…you just implied that this is a relationship._

Tarn was certain he looked panicked behind his mask. 


	12. Where There's Smoke

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief, passing mention of dark themes--abuse, slavery, sexual crime, etc.--in context of DJD law enforcement.

Deathsaurus, for his part, looked well and truly interested. “All right…but you’ll have to be patient while I learn. I’m afraid I’ve had no instruction on Cybertronian manners in a good million years.” 

“I’m sure you’ll pick some up quickly,” Tarn said reassuringly. “You wouldn’t have survived this long if you weren’t a fast learner.” 

Deathsaurus’s grin broadened. Good. Tarn was learning how to compliment his ally. “Let me give this a try, then.” Deathsaurus turned around, swagger returning to his step as he strolled back to the berth. “I take watch on the bridge in eight hours’ time. I intend to spend that time in my berth. I would much _prefer_ to also spend that time _with you_.” Deathsaurus looked back over his shoulder with a fanged grin. “How was _that_?” 

Tarn blinked at Deathsaurus standing next to the berth, arms out in invitation. Heat bloomed underneath his mask. “It’s, ah, it’s…” He caught himself before the stammer became too noticeable. “Acceptable,” he said, and promptly chastised himself. _Acceptable. Surely I could have been a bit more enthusiastic. A bit more eloquent._

_But I don’t know what to say._

Tarn hadn’t been courted in…well, in _ever_ , not unless you counted Megatron, and Megatron had won him over with poetry and political theory and murmurs of appreciation, promises of admiration and perfectly worded descriptions of what Damus could do for the Cause. Which, after all, was the same as doing it for Megatron himself—or at least it had been, once upon a time. 

Tarn could not ask Deathsaurus to be like Megatron, and, given what Megatron had become, Tarn did not _want_ Deathsaurus to pattern his behaviour on Megatron’s. At best Deathsaurus would be a grotesque facsimile of Megatron, and at worst he would remind Tarn over and over again of what Megatron had done that had brought Tarn here to the Warworld, here to its commander’s berth. 

No. Anything he did with Deathsaurus had to be done out of Megatron’s shadow. 

Sadly, Damus of Tarn had never been worth anyone’s time, not even when he’d had a (rather plain) face and (musician’s) hands and a pitch-perfect but otherwise perfectly ordinary voice. All his ideas of romance had been born out of novels and operas and his own rather torrid imagination. He’d never had to worry about factgetting in the way of his fiction before. 

Deathsaurus didn’t seem bothered by the word _acceptable_. He rolled right into his berth—so much for pulling back the covers and letting his guests in first. And he _kept_ rolling, right onto his back on the far side, where he pressed his head into the pillow and lifted his hands and smiled invitingly up at Tarn, as though expecting the commander of the DJD to jump right into his arms. 

Tarn almost _did_. He understood what Deathsaurus wanted, and he admitted to himself that he wanted it too. He moved to the berth as slowly as he could, trying to maintain his dignity in the face of his own excitement. Oh, yes, he longed to be back in that warm embrace. 

But at the side of the bed, Deathsaurus’s expression gave him pause. 

Deathsaurus was ordinarily quite expressive, unlike Tarn, who relied on his mask to hide his emotional responses. Tarn had grown to suspect that Deathsaurus _could_ conceal his true feelings if he wanted to, but he usually chose not to, primarily because he didn’t seem to care much what others thought of him. Still, Deathsaurus must have been guarded to some extent when the DJD first showed up. Tarn had seen Deathsaurus’s easygoing demeanour at their first meeting and thought that the Warworld commander had accepted his overtures for a friendly conversation, only to discover later that Deathsaurus had sincerely believed that the DJD had come to assassinate him. And behind that casual nonchalance had been a cunning plot to kill. 

What should Tarn do now? Believe Deathsaurus’s expression, or wonder what the rogue commander was really thinking? 

Tarn looked down and marvelled at the smile on Deathsaurus’s lips, a broad smile that was strikingly different from the hungry fang-filled grins and sardonic smirks that he usually passed off as smiles. All four of his optics were wide and sparkling, shining with obvious delight. Deathsaurus had his hands held wide, and for all the world he looked as though he were inviting Tarn to come play. 

He looked… _young_. 

Realization slammed into Tarn full force, because of course, Deathsaurus _was_ young. Too young to remember life before the Decepticon movement…before the Senate clampdown…before the war. As a Super MTO he’d come online with the Decepticon insignia already fixed to his chest. 

Never mind that Deathsaurus was a warlord now. He was still millennia younger than Tarn, and given the circumstances of his creation, he’d never been allowed to explore life before being shipped off to battle. If he didn’t always act with the gravitas appropriate to his rank, it was because he hadn’t yet lived long enough…or broadly enough…to earn it. 

Could Tarn honestly blame him if he was playful from time to time? 

Tarn hesitated, wondering what on Cybertron he was doing going to berth with a mech like this. Tarn had always condemned those Decepticons who’d seen the MTOs as disposable. They were _Decepticon warriors_ , just like the forged and the first wave of cold-constructed bots, and they were not to be enslaved or abused or made into the playthings of their elders. The Decepticon Cause already demanded that they risk their lives for it—a noble and worthy goal, eminently worth the sacrifice—but it would _not_ ask them to sacrifice for nothing. As a result, the DJD had visited a number of commanders who’d thought MTOs were good for…Tarn hated to remember the list. Gladiator fights. Berthwarmers. The off-world slave trade. An underground chop-shop hospital in Kaon that converted “interns” to spare parts. Tarn had taken pleasure in punishing those mechs. They’d gotten exactly what they’d deserved. 

Tarn had almost forgotten about that. Maybe because Deathsaurus didn’t exactly seem vulnerable. Not with a Warworld, five hundred loyal-to-the-death crew and that vicious warlord grin. Not when Tarn needed an army and his success hinged on winning Deathsaurus’s allegiance. 

Not until _right now_ , when Deathsaurus lay on his back in his berth and looked up at Tarn with that hopeful expression and his arms spread in welcome. Or maybe Tarn had been in the DJD too long, and the problem was that his brain kept interpreting those raised arms as _surrender_. 

Either way, Tarn felt taken aback. He couldn’t chide Deathsaurus for acting exactly as one might expect a young MTO to act. Tarn thought back, reviewing their brief history together through a different lens, imagining Deathsaurus as a new recruit, rather than as a seasoned warlord. 

_Want to fuck?_

Not a taunt. 

Not an insult. 

Not a challenge. 

Just the entirely ordinary banter of a young mech with a woeful lack of formal discipline and no classical education and a lifelong association with the rougher sort of people. A young mech with healthy and natural desires, but with no idea of how to properly communicate them, or who he ought to be communicating them to. A mech with the nerve to solicit a superior… 

_No._

Tarn had said they would be _equals_ , and in a command position such as captain of a warworld, equals would be in very short supply. Everyone else aboard expected Deathsaurus to lead them and look after them. Everyone…except Tarn. 

Of _course_ he was the object of Deathsaurus’s interest. He was the only other commander on board. 

And Deathsaurus, for better or for worse, did not lack for _nerve_. 

Tarn, on the other hand, wasn’t sure he even remembered _how_ to play. Even in his earliest memories he recalled other mechanisms mocking him for being overly serious. He knew that he had to concentrate on his music, his instrument and his singing. Only through practice could he become good. Only through hard work could he make a career of music. He loved performing, and he loved the classics—reading, dancing, going to the theatre. He’d never understood the loud games and casual amusements of his fellows. 

Maybe he’d just always been….old and stuffy and boring and… 

_To the Smelter with it_ . He’d tried to be good and look where it had gotten him: Empurata, a deadly talent, a mask on his face. Cast out and abandoned by the citizens of Vos, by the Autobots, by Megatron. 

Perhaps he ought to try being bad. Do something entirely impulsive and selfish and ill-advised. 

He knelt on the berth and lowered himself next to Deathsaurus, and as he did so, somehow the sweet taste of guilt at his small act of rebellion made Deathsaurus’s embrace feel even better. 


	13. Phoenix

Chapter Thirteen: Phoenix 

Tarn couldn’t help but feel apprehensive as he felt Deathsaurus shift next to him until their frames rested so close together it felt as though they were on the verge of a combination attempt. 

Should he really be doing this with…ugh, so many reasons not to. Tarn didn’t frag his troops, didn’t frag his targets, didn’t have a taste for younger or more inexperienced mechs… 

…Except that between the two of them, Tarn suspected Deathsaurus had significantly _more_ experience in the berth. Deathsaurus wasn’t a newbuild, wasn’t freshly brought online. He was fully mature, if young, and his warlord’s mantle had not been given to him. He, like Megatron, had earned it. _Taken_ it, even, and made it his own. 

Tarn relaxed, convinced that he wasn’t preying on an innocent. But he didn’t relax soon enough for his sudden panic to escape Deathsaurus’s keen senses. 

“What?” the Warworld commander asked, lifting his head to look into Tarn’s face. His smile faded. 

Tarn sighed. This was the place where a polite lie was ordinarily called for, but Deathsaurus would consider even the kindest fib to be a virulent betrayal. Reluctantly, Tarn answered honestly. “Don’t you think I’m a little…well, a little _old_ for you?” 

Deathsaurus smirked. “I have no complaints about your strength, endurance or…” His talons scratched tantalizingly on their way up Tarn’s back. “Overall performance.” 

Tarn felt a little flattered despite himself, even if it was a shame that Deathsaurus’s mind seemed to have taken up permanent residence in a gutter. 

Deathsaurus leaned closer and whispered, “I don’t think you’re ready for the scrap heap yet.” 

Tarn snorted as he rolled onto his back, dragging Deathsaurus with him until the warlord was practically on top of him. And Deathsaurus didn’t need much more invitation to make himself comfortable, tucking his arms and legs against Tarn’s body, flaring his wings across the berth. He looked down at Tarn with a self-satisfied grin and had no qualms about pressing his frame right up against Tarn’s. 

Tarn should be grateful. He hadn’t ruined the evening after all. And he knew Deathsaurus well enough now to realize that all he’d have to do would be to run his hands up his sides to his wing roots and start rubbing, and he’d soon be in the middle of another go-round with his young, handsome, eager and energetic field marshal. 

That would be the smart thing to do. Let pleasure wash his worries away into oblivion. Blot out his fears with sensory indulgence. If he were very lucky, interface would fade Deathsaurus’s memories as well as his own, and they could go on like this forever, powerful allies with such delightful benefits… 

But somehow Tarn knew that another frag wasn’t going to be enough to settle the feeling of disquiet in his spark. Tarn didn’t know what was _wrong_ with him. Losing himself in his obsessions had always worked for him before, so why…why did he already know that he’d wake up later feeling unfulfilled, small, _alone_? 

Was it because interfacing, unlike transformation binges, nuke and engex, was something he couldn’t do alone? 

And _damn it_ , he’d gotten caught up in his thoughts and Deathsaursus had _noticed. Again_. 

Deathsaurus released him and withdrew, but he didn’t go far. He folded his arms on Tarn’s chest and gazed down at him intently. “This is really bothering you.” 

_I should have fragged someone stupid_ , Tarn thought vehemently. _Someone who wouldn’t notice there was anything off about me. Or someone too frightened of me to say anything if he did._

_If I was going to fool around I could have chosen much more wisely._

But who else would give him what Deathsaurus did? 

Deathsaurus curled up next to Tarn’s side—beside him rather than on him—and tilted his head. “Would you…can I invite you to lie here and talk to me?” 

Tarn spluttered and then laughed out loud. He couldn’t help it. 

Deathsaurus startled. “What?” 

Tarn almost choked on mirthless giggles. They tasted bitter in the back of his mouth. “Do you not realize the irony in the fact that practically _every_ other Decepticon would rather cut out his own audios than listen to me talk?” 

Deathsaurus blinked. “Well, but…you’re not here for _that_ , I would hope.” 

Tarn felt old and worn out and inexplicably weary. Pharma had always told him his transformation addiction would catch up with him someday. Nickel had said the same about the nuke. Perhaps this was the day. “I…for a long time…I haven’t had many social opportunities outside my own crew.” 

“So it’s not just me who needs to practice, then.” 

Tarn looked sidelong at him, feeling uneasy. A moment later he realized why. “The leader of the Decepticon Justice Division is not supposed to be seen _practicing_. My performance must be flawless every time.” 

Deathsaurus shrugged. “For your troops, maybe. I thought we were equals.” 

Tarn sighed. “My Division wasn’t…often tasked with _joint maneuvers_ .” __

“You haven’t worked with anyone else in a long time,” Deathsaurus translated. 

Tarn nodded. 

Deathsaurus didn’t seem bothered. “Me either,” he said with a wink that involved both his left optics. Tarn almost laughed. Of course no one would go on joint maneuvers with an outlaw and wanted thief. 

“Learning to share power isn’t going to be easy,” Deathsaurus continued. He smirked, and his talons began to wander along Tarn’s side, brushing lightly. It wasn’t a demand or even an overture. It made Tarn feel as though Deathsaurus just…just wanted to touch him. To connect with him. “Rather like so many other things worth doing,” Deathsaurus added. 

“Heh.” Tarn smirked. “How did I _ever_ think you left the Empire because you were lazy?” 

“Same way I thought you had no will of your own.” Deathsaurus grew serious as he folded his hand over Tarn’s. “Ignorance. Lack of understanding. You know the more I learn about you, the more I like you.” 

“Likewise.” Tarn still felt overwhelmed by the enormity of what was happening to him. He could hardly conceive of himself as the kind of person who had…whatever was happening here. _A potential courtmate_. That was the best way to put it.   
Yes, he liked talking with Deathsaurus. That ache in his spark…it was fading with every word. 

“So. Tomorrow. How do I phrase my message?” 

“Excuse me?” The change of conversation caught Tarn off guard. 

“I’m getting the distinct impression that sending you a repeat of last night’s message will end with me sleeping on the floor.” Deathsaurus smirked. “How did they say _want to fuck_ in old Vos?” 

Tarn huffed, but he could put no rancour behind it. “In Old Vos they would take you to dinner first.” 

“Dinner, hm? The mess hall is serving fried beryllium baloney tomorrow.” Deathsaurus quirked an optic ridge. “You’re grimacing behind that mask of yours.” 

“You don’t know that.” 

“I can tell.” 

“Baloney? _Really_?” 

“I might be able to acquire something a little nicer, but we shouldn’t rub it in to the crew. We should perhaps have it somewhere private.” 

“Is that an invitation?” 

“Is eating on my couch good enough for you?” 

“Ugh.” Tarn paused—just because Deathsaurus lacked in manners didn’t excuse Tarrn for ungentlemanly conduct. “Why don’t you come by the _Peaceful Tyranny_ instead.” 

“So now it’s you doing the inviting.” 

“If that’s what it takes to get proper silverware…” Tarn broke off and, much to his own surprise, found himself laughing. 

Deathsaurus laughed too. Tarn lifted his hands to the roots of the other mech’s wings and rubbed and felt the warlord’s engine purr. 

His old life was falling in flames all around him, but for the first time Tarn found himself unable to properly grieve. He found himself curious—eager, even—to see what might rise from the ashes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Though this brings us to the end of this story rest assured it is NOT the end of the series. Next up is an imaginary story that actually matters, a "what if" with Deathsaurus and Damus, which gives Tarn the nerve to ask for something that's been weighing more and more on his mind...
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's joined me on this "battle ship" and for all your kind comments and support!


End file.
